


is your conscience alright? (does it plague you)

by devereauxing



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/pseuds/devereauxing
Summary: meaddowsrt✔  had uploaded a picture of his goddamn croissant to Instagram three hours ago alongside a glowing review of Mercury’s. John loathed him.*in which john is very passionate about a croissant
Relationships: Chrissie Mullen/Chris "Crystal" Taylor, Dominique Beyrand/Roger Taylor (Past), John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22
Collections: Joger Week 2019





	is your conscience alright? (does it plague you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is day three of........... joger week 2019. it is unfinished. i need to get rid of it, it haunts me. 
> 
> croissant fic, begone.

*

“Morning,” John greeted as he walked through the doors of his regular cafe, tugging his scarf loose so it no longer covered half of his face. It was January and bitterly cold outside. He’d considered catching an Uber, as he frequently did during the winter, but couldn’t bring himself to waste the money for a short ten minutes of discomfort. 

Also, an Uber meant no coffee and no breakfast. Or, at least, no palatable coffee and breakfast. 

He’d drink the swill the studio served up when hell froze over, and he liked to think that he was a better boss than to send Ratty out into the tundra he himself wasn’t willing to face. 

Chrissie, the early morning barista, grimaced at him: “Morning, John.” 

“Christ,” he laughed, pulling his beanie off his head and stamping the sleet free off his boots. “It’s a bit early for you to be in a sour mood already, innit?” 

“Your croissant’s gone,” Freddie, the owner and early morning server, told him with aplomb. “Snapped up by some bastard who just wouldn’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid. I tried to fight him off, but t’was no use—” 

“He was hot,” Chrissie interrupted, rolling her eyes. “We almost couldn’t give it to ‘im, Freds was drooling over him so much. Health and safety would have had us shut down over it, I swear.” 

John looked at the pastry display cabinet. Sure enough his early morning staple, an almond croissant with frangipane curd, was missing from it’s spot right at the back. “Oh,” he said softly, shocked to find himself genuinely upset by the development. 

“You _hussy_ ,” Freddie hissed at Chrissie as she steamed milk for John’s bone dry cappuccino. “We agreed on a cover story!” 

“I,” Chrissie said archly, dusting chocolate powder. “Agreed to no such thing.” 

“You’re fired.” 

“Good luck finding someone else to work this shift.” 

“I could.” 

“Freddie,” Chrissie said patiently, scooching John’s coffee over to him with an apologetic smile before turning to Freddie, hands on her hips. “You’ve been stuck working this server shift ever since Paul—” 

“Bastard.” 

“ _Ever since_ ,” Chrissie continued, not raising her voice in the slightest and still somehow managing to make her displeasure at being interrupted known. “Paul left. You’ll not find another barista masochistic enough to work graveyard.” 

Freddie lifted his chin imperiously, “Maybe.” 

* 

The next morning, John was on a mission. 

He was a creature of habit when it came down to it. 

He’d been getting a bone dry cappuccino and an almond croissant from Mercury’s ever since he’d been promoted to the breakfast show. Freddie still ordered in the croissant, a good one quid dearer than the rest of the pastries on offer, specifically for him. Monday to Friday, forty eight weeks a year, for two years. 

The croissant was _his_. 

It was hidden away at the back of pastry cabinet in wait for him and the fact that some bastard had a) dared to be at the cafe before him, when he knew for a fact that they made very few sales between 2am (when the pastries were delivered) and 4am (when he arrived) and b) bought the _one_ item that he had habitually bought for two damned years was....discombobulating. 

For God’s sake, he had to let Freddie know when he was taking his annual leave so he knew not to order them in! 

He’d spent the previous morning utterly off-kilter. He’d actually asked Ratty how his weekend had been — something that he’d been sure not to do ever since he’d had the misfortune of learning about his lads trip to Amsterdam in their first month of working together. 

There were some things you just didn’t want to hear about a man with the unfortunately apt moniker of Ratty getting up to, and John had heard them all within the space of one horrendous one sided conversation. 

Luckily this weekend had been a quiet one for Ratty. Either that, or he’d learned his mistake the first time around. Regardless, John hadn’t paid all that much attention, preoccupied as he was by the deeply unsatisfying nature of the raspberry danish he had reluctantly settled for. 

Freddie had, at least, given it to him on the house. 

As he very well should have; Chrissie had messaged him later that day to let him know that the hottie that had stolen his breakfast had gotten his order for free too. _Bastard_. 

John had briefly considered frequenting another cafe for a day or so in protest, but the idea of deviating from his usual morning route seemed more trouble than it was worth. Also, it would mean missing out on his almond croissant two days in a row which just wasn’t worth the paltry satisfaction he might render from Freddie’s doubtless dramatic apologies should he go through with it. 

And so, John was on a mission. 

He set his alarm a whole quarter of an hour earlier to beat his usurper to Mercury’s, a sacrifice he would make for little else. No matter how long you spent waking up at the arse crack of dawn it never really got easier. Three o’clock in the morning was three o’clock in the morning no matter which way you sliced it; the hind part of his brain which had never quite evolved past considering walking upright as the height of sophistication simply didn’t _care_ about the advent of widespread electricity and revolted at being up before the sun. 

He’d slipped and slid down the street with little to no regard for his own safety — an ice patch was an ice patch, but he’d be damned if he lost out on his croissa— 

“What do you _mean_ it’s gone?” he demanded, head whipping between Chrissie and Freddie as if one of them would tell him it was a joke at any moment. “It’s quarter to bloody four in the morning! Who’s buying an almond croissant at quarter to four in the sodding morning?” 

“Well, darling,” Freddie ventured, hands held out placatingly. “Historically speaking… you.” 

“Apart from me,” John snapped, frustration welling up inside him. 

He knew that his reaction was disproportionate to the situation at hand. He also knew that the tired looking girl sat in the corner, wearing sweatpants and surrounded by empty mugs, was watching him incredulously as he came dangerously close to stomping his foot on the ground and shouting, “ _Mine!”_ like an obstinate toddler. 

He also knew that his fucking croissant was gone. Again. 

“Was it the same bloke?” he questioned insistently, half hanging over the counter in his desperation. “Do you know his name?” 

“What are you going to do?” Chrissie asked. Her expression was stuck somewhere between amusement and pity; it usually was, when she looked at him. “Take out a hit on him?” 

“Roger,” Freddie answered dreamily, wiping at the counter absently. 

“ _Roger?_ ” John demanded, mind wandering to the head of blonde hair he’d seen ducking around the corner towards the bus stop that sat opposite the Waterstone’s. No, it couldn’t be. “Blonde, yay high,” he asked, gesturing to around about his brow bone. “Looks like he won’t call you?” 

“Well,” Freddie began, faux scandal colouring his tone. 

“That’s him,” Chrissie said flatly. 

“Oh my god,” John breathed, snatching his coffee from the bench. “I know him.” 

“No shit,” muttered Chrissie. 

“No,” Freddie gasped, flapping his hands at Chrissie when she rolled her eyes. He leaned forward eagerly, “Did he not call you?” 

“What?” John said, confused. He blinked at him as his uncaffeinated — and missing an invaluable fifteen minutes of sleep — brain struggled to catch up to the conversation again. “Wha— no!” 

“He didn’t call? What a scoundrel!” Freddie sniffed, before pointing at Chrissie. “No more free coffee for him! Not if he’s treated our favourite customer in such a manner!” 

“That’s no—” 

“Oh, sure, because I’m the one handing out free coffee to every man who happens to stumble in looking like they might have a job and not live with their mother.” 

Freddie ignored her, leaning back over the counter. “Was he good?” he asked with a salacious wink. “He looks like he’d be good.” 

“I work with him!” John exclaimed, gesturing wildly as if by being louder and wilder than Freddie he could regain control over the conversation. 

“Ooh,” Freddie sing-songed. “You saucy minx, I didn’t think you had it in you!” 

John gaped at him wordlessly. 

Chrissie, taking pity on him, shoved Freddie hard enough that he stumbled over the rubbish bin that he had been stood next to and toppled onto the floor. She waved him off. “Go, go,” she insisted, paying no mind at all to Freddie’s squawking as he lay on the floor, loudly insisting that he needed to know all about his _tawdry affair_. “You’ll be late!” 

John stumbled back out into the cold, coffee in hand, and pretended not to hear her as she turned to Freddie with a: “Oh, come off it, you know he hasn’t gotten laid in years.” 

John sniffed and turned his collar up against the wind. It hadn’t been _years_. 

…. But his barista really did know way too much about his love life, he decided. 

* 

“Something on your mind, boss?” Ratty asked during the advertisement break, refilling his tepid cup of tea as the guest settled in across the desk. Some popstar who wouldn’t know a good song if it bit her in the arse, most likely. 

John blinked, looking away from the screen of his phone. 

meaddowsrt _✔_ had uploaded a picture of his goddamn croissant to Instagram three hours ago alongside a glowing review of Mercury’s. John loathed him. 

There was one of the popstar’s songs, an overly long track filled with vocals she clearly hadn’t recorded herself, queued up for after the advertisements. John could spare a minute for a chat. 

“You heard much about the new bloke? Roger?” he asked, attempting an aura of nonchalance. 

Ratty blinked at him, clearly having not expected John to actually partake in conversation with him. Across the desk the popstar — Kiyral, was her name, John now remembered — was bopping her head to her own song. 

“Uh,” stammered Ratty, bewilderedly checking behind himself as if there was someone else John could be talking to. “Roger?” 

“Yeah,” John prompted impatiently. It was a long song, but not _that_ long. “The one who took over from Dom doing the ten to three?” 

“Oh, right,” Ratty said with a cough. “Right, yeah, Roger. Uh, yeah he’s a’ight,” he prattled, a strange air of guilt hanging over him. “Works with Crystal; he stayed on. They know each other,” he paused, as if hoping John was going to jump in. When he didn’t he lamely repeated: “He’s a’ight.” 

John watched him steadily. 

A flush began to creep up Ratty’s neck. 

“ _And_ ,” John announced, swinging back around to face the mic. “That was the brilliant new single from up and coming star Kiyral! You’ll be glad to hear we have Kiyral in the studio with us today to talk about her soon to be released album, _The Heartbreak Kid_ , in just a few minutes. First, I’ll pass you over to Veronica for the news.” 

The live signal blinked out, and in the next booth Veronica began her segment. John swivelled back around again to face Ratty once more. 

He waited. 

“Okay,” Ratty broke, as was expected. A wet paper towel could hold up more resistance than his assistant; it was one of the reasons he’d hired him. “I told him about Mercury’s!” 

John’s fist clenched entirely without his permission around his phone. 

“I’m sorry!” Ratty nigh on wailed, looking utterly miserable. “I didn’t think he’d get the croissant!” 

“You _knew_ ,” John hissed accusingly, scooting further forward on his chair. Ratty backed away wearily. “Two days you knew!” 

“I—” 

John held up a hand to silence him as his phone lit up with a notification. 

_meaddowsrt✔ started following you!_

“Is he mocking me?” he scowled, reaching up to shove his screen in Ratty’s face. 

“I… I don’t think he knows how much you care about the croissant, boss,” Ratty said haltingly, near cross eyed in his attempt to see the screen clearly. “I think he’s just following all of us from work.” 

“Bullshit,” John pronounced, snatching his phone back just in time to introduce Kiyral to the airwaves properly. 

* 

Wednesday also proved itself a failure. 

He had attempted to leave the house at three o’clock on the dot. Knowing, as he did now, that it was Roger — whose show ended at three — that was buying his croissant, he knew how to beat him. 

Leaving at three, however, meant waking up two thirty. 

He’d bolted awake at five past three, marimba trilling softly from his phone tauntingly. 

Chrissie had greeted him at Mercury’s with a sad, pitying look on her face and an admonition to be nicer to Ratty. 

John, croissant-less and overtired, had decided to deal with the discovery of Chrissie and Ratty’s apparent _twitter friendship_ by promptly wiping such knowledge from his mind. 

He hadn’t even known Ratty had a twitter. 

* 

On Thursday, he came tantalizingly close to success. 

He’d burst through the doors of Mercury’s to find Roger turning away from the counter with the croissant in hand. 

“Oh!” Roger said, ridiculous faux (or so John hoped; though wouldn’t it be just like him to wear the skin of dead animals? First croissant stealing, then unethical clothing choices! Did the man have no shame?) fur coat sprinkled around the collar with buttery, flaky goodness. 

There was, John noted bitterly, a flake of almond stuck to the corner of his mouth. 

Roger’s tongue darted out to collect the stray piece of almond. “John, right?” he asked, an unfairly friendly smile on his face as he squinted at him from in front of the counter. “The breakfast guy?” 

“That’s me,” John replied, stone faced. 

Roger faltered. 

Behind him, Freddie was half propped on the pastry case with his eagerness to eavesdrop. 

“Right,” Roger said awkwardly, shuffling in place unsurely. 

“The usual, John?” Chrissie interrupted, blasting the steam wand as she spoke. Freddie, still sprawled near on top of the pastry cabinet, scowled at her. 

“Yes, please,” he responded, smiling at her warmly and ignoring Roger completely. “I don’t suppose you have—” 

“I’m afraid not.” She slammed her milk jug on the counter, her smile edged with the sort of danger John had occasionally spotted on his mother during his teenage years. Usually right before he wound up grounded for a week or two. “We just sold it.” 

Roger’s gaze darted between the croissant he held in his hand and John. 

“That’s a shame,” John said, breezing past Roger to pay for his coffee. 

Roger slunk out of the front door, like the snake he was, while Freddie was in the middle of blatantly overcharging him for his coffee. 

“What?” John asked innocently when Chrissie shoved his coffee across the bench roughly towards him. Milk came spilling out of the spout which meant it wasn’t bone dry, but the look on her face had him accepting it nonetheless. 

“You’re a dick, John,” she told him bitingly, stomping off into the back room before he could rejoinder. 

He looked over at Freddie. 

“He took my croissant,” he told him, wincing at the pathetic nature of his excuse. 

Freddie grimaced. “Darling,” he said softly, reaching over to pat him on the head. “You’d be better telling people he didn’t call, I think.” 

* 

Friday dawned overcast and grey. Presumably. John was in the studio by the time the sun came up, but Veronica assured him the next seven days were looking as miserly as usual, so it could be safely assumed. 

And on Friday he got tackled in the doorway to Mercury’s by Crystal Taylor. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he spluttered, sprawled on the floor. 

The door swung shut on his foot. 

“Fuck!” 

“Chamomile tea and the almond croissant.” 

John squinted up at the ceiling blearily for a moment before shooting up to scramble to his feet, “Oh, no you don’t!” He propped himself up on the closest chair: “That’s my croissant, you bas— who the fuck are you?” 

The man at the counter looked vaguely familiar in that John felt the sudden urge to apologise for having gotten in the way of his shoulder tackle. He looked John over assessingly, gaze lingering on the foot that John was trying not to put any weight on. He quirked an eyebrow before turning back around. 

“Chamomile tea,” he drawled to Chrissie, who had her hands drawn to her chest and wide eyes. “And the almond croissant. Please, love.” 

Chrissie nodded. “Chamomile tea and an almond croissant, Freddie,” she repeated. 

Freddie, who John had never seen within two foot of the coffee machine, hurriedly began making the requested chamomile tea all the while avoiding John’s eye. 

“How much is that then?” the man asked Chrissie, patting his pockets for change. 

Chrissie pursed her lips, her gaze darting from his shoulders to John consideringly. “Do you play rugby?” she asked, cocking her head. Next to her Freddie obediently bagged up the almond croissant when she pointed to it. 

John attempted to keep his whimper to himself. 

“Uh,” the guy said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Used to? Got a bit too banged up to keep playing.” 

“Hmm,” Chrissie hummed, holding back the tea as he went to grab it. “Single?” 

Freddie looked as if he were about to pass out. 

“... Yes?” 

“Interested?” 

“Very.” 

“Name?” 

“Crystal.” 

It was like a lightbulb went off over John’s head. He knew who this guy was now. 

“You free at eight?” 

Crystal hesitated, tugging on his earring. “This evening?” 

“God, no,” Chrissie scoffed, shoving the tea over to him at last. He cradled it gratefully. “I’m here at half-three in the morning and you think I’m out at eight?” 

“Oh,” Crystal said with a shrug. “Sure. Here, or somewhere else?” 

“Here,” Chrissie told him, tossing her hair over her shoulder flippantly. John wasn’t sure, but he thought Freddie might have swooned at the motion. “You’re alright looking, but I’m not running home to get dolled up for you.” 

“Fair enough,” Crystal replied, shrugging again as if it was, indeed, fair enough. “How much for the tea and the pastry then?” 

Chrissie rolled her eyes, “Get out of here before I change my mind.” 

“Aye aye,” Crystal saluted her with the bagged croissant and spun around. He stopped and looked at John for a moment, still draped unceremoniously over a chair, before making his way out the door and off down the street. In, John noted, the opposite direction of the studio. 

“You,” Chrissie declared, her voice ringing out loudly in the empty cafe. “Look fucking pathetic, Deacon. Pick yourself up, for God’s sake.” 

“Oh my God,” Freddie was babbling repeatedly, hands waving about himself as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “Oh my God!” 

Chrissie shot him a withering glance and he pulled himself back together, head turning to look between the two of them like an excited dog that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to play fetch or get a treat more. 

“You,” John spoke slowly, standing up finally. “Are consorting with the enemy.” 

“Am I?” Chrissie asked disinterestedly, inspecting her nails. To Freddie, in an aside, she added: “Do you think I could pop out for half an hour when Phoebe gets in at seven to get my nails done?” 

“Oh, of course, lovie.” 

“You don’t know anything about him!” John exploded, waving his arms about. “He could be a complete madman!” 

Chrissie watched him dispassionately. “A madman, you say?” she deadpanned. 

Freddie’s lips were twitching. 

John let his arms fall. 

“You could do better,” John said steadily, the various stories and rumours he’d heard about _Crystal Taylor’s_ exploits running rampant in his head. 

“Historically speaking,” Chrissie replied with a grimace. “Probably not. Remember that vegan from the sushi place?” she asked Freddie who was now stood behind her making vigorous nix motions at John. He stopped and pretended to stretch when she turned to catch his eye. 

“Oh, vaguely,” Freddie demurred. 

“God,” she sighed, shaking her head. “He tried to shag me against the wall and bloody fell over. I was scared shitless he’d broken a bone, y’know, ‘cause of the calcium deficiency. Imagine showing up at A&E with your boyfriend who broke a bone trying to lift you.” 

“You couldn’t, darling,” Freddie said, patting her on the shoulder. “You were right to get out of that one.” 

John opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. 

He thought for a second. 

“So, wait,” he started, stopped, and then started again like his first car; a 1996 Vauxhall that knew it was probably better not to start, but let itself be convinced against its better nature nevertheless. “Did he break a bone?” 

“No idea,” Chrissie shrugged. “I hightailed it out of there.” 

“... And you never heard from him again?” 

“Changed my number.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Maybe Crystal and she deserved one another. 

* 

On Monday morning John woke up late. 

As in, Ratty calling his phone because he should have been at work already, _late_. 

“It’s alright,” Ratty told him as he shoved the headphones over his ears. “I’ve had Sandstorm on repeat for the past ten minutes.” 

“By Darude?” John gaped at him, looking over at Terry the engineer outside the booth. Terry shrugged at him with the countenance of a man who has already accepted his fate at the hands of the program director. “Wait. Where’s Jobby?” 

“I told him you were here and that he could leave,” Ratty shrugged. “Just in case, you know.” 

John did know. There was an old rumour that Miami, the ten AM to one PM disc jockey, had inherited his position as an intern when his predecessor had died on the job. Miami had never confirmed this but neither had he ever denied it, and he was the kind of man who certainly gave you the impression — as he offered you a cup of tea and a hobnob — that he could and would murder you if the need arose. 

Needless to say, their station had a very suspicious attitude when it came to the ambitions of interns. 

“Right, right,” John nodded to himself, hustling around the desk to get settled in. “Good call.” 

Ratty beamed. 

Then John settled his earphones on only to be immediately blasted by Darude. “Fucking hell, you weren’t kidding. Darude? Really? It’s five AM!” 

“It’ll wake people up,” Ratty defended. 

John stared at him wordlessly. 

“It was on the decks!” 

“The breakfast decks?” John asked slowly, looking over to Terry once more. Terry shook his head. 

“Yea— Oh.” 

Ratty scampered from the booth. 

The morning passed in a haze of irate callers, irate higher ups, and — by the end of his shift — a truly incredible amount of requests for Sandstorm to be played again. 

Ratty, wisely, had not been seen since his disappearance from the booth earlier in the morning. Largely, John suspected, out of fear that he would be laid out to slaughter for the debacle. Which — if anyone asked — John had _certainly_ considered, but finding another assistant who knew exactly how he took his tea would be a nightmare and a half at this time of year. 

That was his story and he was sticking to it. 

Not that Ratty was doing him any good in the tea making department seeing as he was nowhere to be bloody found. 

“Hey.” 

John looked up from where he was trying to drown himself in the dregs of his (badly made) tea to find Crystal sodding Taylor smirking down at him. 

“Rough morning?” 

“Fuck off,” John groaned, leaning forward once more. The majority of the staff had been giving the kitchenette a wide berth since he’d sequestered himself inside, but there was always an exception. 

“I come bearing the flag of surrender!” Crystal pressed on, a teasing lilt to his tone that John knew enough about to be immediately concerned. 

He’d heard about the incident with the bottle opener and Elton John, okay? Everyone had heard. 

And then, turning his head just enough to squint at him suspiciously, John noticed the bag he was waving about. A Mercury’s bag. 

“I have been sent,” Crystal continued, reluctantly if the pained expression on his face was anything to go by. “To apologise.” 

“Don’t strain yourself.” 

“If you’re gonna be a cockhead, I won’t,” Crystal snapped, drawing the bag back towards himself again. 

“Okay, okay,” John acquiesced, holding his hands up placatingly. “But, to be fair, I don’t know what’s in the bag.” 

Crystal just looked at him. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grunted to himself, shaking his head. “What is with you, dude? Do you fuck them? What is so bloody great about these goddamn croissants that you just lose your fucking mind?” 

John spluttered helplessly. “They’re just good!” he blurted out, eyes darting between the bag and Crystal’s unimpressed expression. “I have one every day.” 

“You’re not convincing me this isn’t some weird sex thing, mate. When was the last time you got laid?” 

“That,” John drew himself up. “Is not—” 

“Is this like when people cut a hole in a slice of grapefruit?” Crystal asked, leaning against the doorway casually. “And then they fuck it?” 

“ _What_?” John exclaimed, pausing to consider this. The imagery arrived, in all its glory. The imagery arrived, in all its horror. “What the fuck, no? No!” 

Then, “Do people do that?” 

“Have you, like, never heard of Buzzfeed?” Crystal snorted before chucking the bag at him. It hit him square in the face. “Whatever, I’ve been sent to apologise. I’ve apologised.” 

John fumbled to catch the bag before it hit the ground and opened it up to catch a peek. Inside in all its — somewhat squashed — splendour, lay an almond croissant with frangipane curd. “Have you?” he ventured somewhat timidly as Crystal sauntered out of the door and back down the hallway. 

He peered his head around the corner just in time to see Crystal flip him off as he exited into the stairwell. 

* 

John sat at a table blearily blinking at his Twitter feed. From what he could tell the frog meme was now racist (or always had been). He wasn’t entirely sure. 

A mug slammed down onto the table in front of him. John was tired enough that he barely even jumped. 

“So, Crystal said he apologised? But I don’t trust the bastard so I’m here to apologise for him,” said Roger, a hopeful smile on his face. He looked as exhausted as John felt. 

Three AM was kind to no one, it seemed. 

“I was gonna buy you your croissant,” Roger continued, gesturing to the remnants of what had once been a pastry but now resembled more of an avant-garde take on the machinery of the capitalist state. “But you seem to have beaten me to it.” 

“For once,” John grumbled, pulling the napkin closer to himself as if Roger was going to attempt to steal the crumbs. 

Roger lifted his shoulders into a shrug with a grimace, holding out his hands as if to say to the world, 'fair enough'. “To be fair,” he said lowly, taking a sip from his mug. “I didn’t know you had dibs on the croissant.” 

John glared at him suspiciously. 

“I also didn’t ask Crystal to bodyslam you. He came up with that on his own.” 

“Really.” 

“Really,” Roger insisted, looking much too earnest — for both the early hour of the morning and his disposition in general. “If I’m going to fight someone over a croissant I’ll do it myself.” 

This, strangely enough, John believed. 

“Crystal’s just…” Roger trailed off, looking for the words. 

“Mildly fucking insane?” John offered, now aware of the way that both Chrissie and Freddie were crouched behind the coffee machine blatantly spying on the two of them. 

“Protective,” Roger settled on, though he nodded along with John’s suggestion. 

“Protective?” 

“Protective,” Roger agreed. “Like a pitbull.” 

John looked at him blankly. 

“I fed him once and now he won’t stop pissing on all of my things,” Roger elaborated, gesturing between the two of them. 

“And I,” John went on unsurely when Roger didn’t continue. “Am… one of your things?” 

“No!” Roger yelped, gesturing for him to be quiet before glaring at the exact spot that Chrissie and Freddie had just ducked down behind. “No. The croissant,” he explained. 

“The croissant is one of your things?” John ventured, his brain still trying to kick into gear. He’d been here since quarter past two, all in the name of a croissant. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure it had been worth it. 

“No, no,” Roger said, shaking his head. John pondered, momentarily, what conditioner he used. “The croissant is _your_ thing; Crystal explained. It’s fine.” 

“What?” 

Roger blinked across the table at him for a few long seconds before smiling warmly and patting his hand. “It’s fine, John,” he told him. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to apologise for Crystal. He’s a bit of a dick.” 

That said, Roger stood, drained the last of his tea and made for the door. As he disappeared into the snow John turned bewilderedly to Chrssie and Freddie who, having now given up any pretense of being anything other than a pair of eavesdropping scoundrels, were waiting eagerly for his response to the encounter. 

“I need you to be honest,” John told them seriously, waiting for them to nod in agreement before continuing. “Do you think there’s any chance he thinks I’m conducting a sexual relationship with the almond croissants I buy from here?” 

“Absolutely not,” Chrissie reassured him. 

“Definitely,” said Freddie with a sad shake of his head. 

* 

Gogglebox was playing in silence on John’s telly and an empty bottle of wine, which had begun the evening full, was rolling about next to his foot. Jo, the assistant to the program director, had been quietly despairing upon learning he’d never watched an episode and so he’d promised to have at least the general format understood before the morning’s interview with one of its stars. 

So far all he’d learned was that Roger was Dom’s ex. Dom the previous graveyard presenter who had been so utterly terrifying that Ratty refused to even speak her name for a solid six months after she — and John was quoting directly here — looked at him meanly. 

He squinted at the screen of his phone. 

Dom who still commented on all of his posts, apparently. And was also out to dinner with him as of twenty minutes ago if his story was anything to go by. 

John was hit by the sudden urge to post something of his own but, well, Gogglebox and an empty bottle of wine did not an impressive post make. 

Not that he had anyone to impress. 

Fuck it. 

He threw himself off of the sofa and made his way to the kitchen. 

Buried right at the back of the cupboard under his sink lived a spare bottle of wine. It had lived there for two years, gifted to him by Veronica after he’d stumbled into work still pissed on tequila. He’d spent his shift strategically vomiting during advertisements and making an absolute fool of himself in front of Dame Judy Dench who, all things considered, had been an angel about the situation. 

Who knew she carried the fixings for Bloody Mary’s on her person at all times? 

Veronica had slammed the bottle down on the desk the next morning, startling John from a quick catnap during the news report, and told him that: _the next time you have a breakdown over a man, don’t drink straight tequila, you fucking imbecile. Now get your head off the desk, take a paracetamol and eat your bloody croissant._

Thus marked the last time John drank tequila. Nothing was worth the three day hangover, not even that brief period at about one AM when he’d been able to forget all about fuckin’ _Martin_ while he danced about his kitchen in his boxers to KC & The Sunshine Band. 

And, well, he wasn’t exactly having a breakdown over a man — but he was stalking Roger’s social media accounts and feeling, maybe, a little guilty about being — in Chissie’s words — a tosspot who substituted pastries for actual human interaction. 

* 

By the time John stumbled into the studio the next morning — on time, thank you — he had three missed calls from Ratty, seven increasingly frantic texts from Freddie, a vaguely threatening Snapchat of the Mercury’s pastry cabinet from Chrissie, and a single Whatsapp message from Veronica which consisted of nothing but: 🍆? 

Scratch that: _four_ missed calls from Ratty. 

“I’m here, Jesus Christ!” 

Ratty, stood by the desk biting his nails with his phone glued to his ear, jumped. 

“Is there a reason,” John demanded, his hands on his hips. “That you were calling me at three in the fucking morning?” 

Ratty blinked at him. 

“And is that _fucking_ Darude on the fucking decks?” 

“No?” Ratty answered hesitantly, slowly lowering his phone from his ear as John’s own stopped vibrating in his pocket. 

“No, there’s no reason or: no, that’s not Darude lined up?” 

Much like a deer which has evolved to evade predators such as wolves and not, say, cars — or, in this case, an irate boss — Ratty stood stock still. 

John waited. 

Ratty shot a desperate glance at Terry who was watching everything unfold from outside of the booth. Terry merely continued to watch impassively. 

“Well,” broke Ratty, wringing his hands nervously. “Veronica called me last night and said that you were having boy troubles—” 

“I am not,” John interrupted, still in his pyjamas. “Having _boy troubles_.” 

Ratty hesitated, looking at John’s feet. On anyone else in the entire world the look would have been pointed and judgemental. Ratty, upon looking at the slippers John was still wearing, somehow managed to make the gesture come across as apologetic. As if it were his fault that John had decided against getting dressed today. 

“Okay,” Ratty capitulated with a shrug. “But _Veronica_ said so, and I got worried and checked your Instagram, which she told me to do—” 

“Why does Veronica have your number?” 

“Because you were having boy troubles.” 

“I was _not_ —” 

“And you posted a picture of that bottle of Pinot Noir she got you from way back when you last dated someone,” Ratty continued, rambling desperately. “But I knew that you had a bottle of Cab Sav that you were gonna drink while watching Gogglebox, because you told Jo that was what you were going to do last night—” 

Terry, bastard that he was, pressed play. 

“So that meant you were drinking two bottles of wine, which, like, you _never_ drink that much apart from at the Christmas party and that’s just because you don’t like to be sober around most of the people you work with, ‘cause you don’t like most of us. And then Chrissie messaged me a couple of hours ago because you didn’t come in early to get your croissant, and Freddie was _really_ worried, and Jobby has been sniffing around the desk so much lately, and—” 

Sandstorm began to play. 

Ratty fell silent. 

“Get. Out.” 

Ratty ran. 

* 

“Heads up!” 

A projectile hit John’s head before he could so much as flinch. 

“I will actually murder you,” John told Crystal, glaring up at him from the corner table at Mercury’s. He’d made it through his shift with minimal casualties — although the chances of Ed Sheeran ever coming on his show had been drastically reduced after his rather scathing bitching session with a caller about his latest Top 10 hit — and now he wanted to be left alone to drink his strawberry milkshake in peace. 

The server, a young girl he’d never seen before, had squinted at him suspiciously as he’d ordered before demanding to know whether or not he was John Deacon. Upon confirmation of his identity, she’d aggressively thrust a white chocolate and macadamia cookie in his face and refused to let him pay. 

“You can try,” Crystal said dismissively with a shrug, dropping down onto the chair opposite him. 

John didn’t so much as look in the bag that, having bounced off of his head, sat on the table between them. “Why?” he demanded, pointing at it accusingly with his straw. A drop of pink milk splashed onto the table. 

Crystal looked at the splash of milk for several long seconds before meeting his gaze. Unlike Ratty, Crystal was more than capable of conveying judgement in spades. 

“I’m hungover, fuck off,” John grouched, hunching over the remnants of his milkshake defensively. 

“Heard you’re having some sort of downward spiral ‘cause a bloke broke up with you or some shite,” Crystal said, reaching over and stealing John’s pity cookie. “Rog sends his condolences.” 

John looked at him, exhausted. “I didn’t—“ he cut himself off. There was no point. He shoved the pastry bag back in Crystal direction with his straw. “I don’t want it.” 

Crystal hummed thoughtfully, chewing on his stolen cookie. “Yeah,” he said, spraying flecks of crumbs across the table. John wrinkled his nose in distaste. “But we both know that isn’t true, don’t we?” Crystal finished, darting a hand out to tweak John’s nose. 

John slapped at his hand, missed, and knocked over his milkshake. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” he growled, shooting up out of his seat as sticky, pink milk spilled over the table and onto his lap. “You fucking dickhea—“ 

“That was you!” Crystal yelped, having also shoved himself away from the table. Eyes wide, “That was you, that wasn’t me.” 

John fought the urge to cry, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. “I just wanted a milkshake,” he said tremulously. 

Silence. 

And then: “Hey, Lucy! Sorry, but John’s spilled his milkshake on the floor — do ya have a mop?” 

John opened his eyes to find Lucy, stood behind the till, looking at him with a depth of hatred he was fairly sure had never been sent in his direction before. He tried not to flinch as she broke her gaze to stomp off of the shop floor, presumably in search of a mop. 

“Why do you hate me?” came unbidden from his lips, misery dragging the words down between them with the same gravitational pull that had steady drips of sticky sweet milk landing on his shoe. 

Crystal’s brow furrowed incredulously. “Jesus,” he snorted, flipping his chair around to flop onto it backwards. He rested his arms on the back of the chair and looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met Freddie,” he said, pausing thoughtfully. “I’ve met _Roger_.” 

“He doesn’t seem that dramatic,” John mumbled, shuffling to the side as Lucy approached them with her mop held in a suspiciously aggressive style. Stronger, he then said: “I’ve had a very bad couple of weeks.” 

“Someone else bought your croissant a couple of times,” Crystal deadpanned, unimpressed. Lucy stomped back off, carrying the mop so that it dragged behind her leaving a trail of milk in her wake. “No one died.” 

John, hungover and covered in sticky milk, glared at him dispassionately, “Not yet.” 

Crystal paused, eyes darting over him as he considered the threat. “Tell you what, mate,” he said, standing up. “I’ll buy you a new milkshake and grab you an Uber home, yeah?” 

At the counter, Lucy slammed down a takeaway cup. John briefly considered asking for another dine in, just to be a dick. 

“It’s the least you could do,” he told Crystal magnanimously. 

It had been, he considered, all almost worth it just to watch Crystal’s face as he fought off the urge to tell him to fuck off. 

* 

There was a bottle of wine, a croissant, and a strawberry milkshake on his desk. 

Veronica, who had been shuffling in behind him, walked into his back. John squinted. 

“Move out of the way, fuck sake,” Veronica grouched, shoving and punching, none too lightly, at his back until he did so. 

“Jesus, Veronica,” he bitched, rubbing at his ribs as he moved aside. “Really?” 

“I’ve got mallets for hands,” she told him solemnly, holding them up for inspection. “And I’m not afraid to use them.” 

“It’s like you didn’t even attend the OHS meeting last month,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Pretty sure there was something in there about not committing aggravated assault on your coworkers.” 

“Nah,” she dismissed, waving a hand and she turned. “They were too busy discussing the correct way to carry a cup of te— Oh, Jesus, John,” Veronica sighed, taking in the bottle of wine. “If you’re going to drink at work at least _try_ to be sneaky about it or Jobby’s about to get a hell of a promotion.” 

“I don’t have a drinking problem!” John exclaimed, very glad that he’d gotten dressed this morning. 

Veronica shot him a withering look. “Grow up, John. You’re in your late twenties, of course you’ve got a drinking problem.” 

John mulled this over for a moment before nodding; that was fair. 

“I don’t,” Jobby said, appearing from underneath the desk like a spectre of looming unemployment. 

“Fucking Christ!” Veronica exclaimed, just barely holding onto the bottle of wine she’d moved forward to inspect. “What the fuck are you doing under the desk?” 

Jobby stood, appearing to think over his answer. “There was a loose wire,” he settled on, wiping down his trousers of dust as he did so. “There was,” Jobby insisted, avoiding Veronica’s sceptical gaze. 

Moving over to take his seat, John kept a suspicious eye on him. He took a long sip of his milkshake — extra ice cream, just how he liked it — and watched Jobby scurry out. 

Veronica stalked over to the studio door and slammed it shut behind him. “The little rat bastard’s getting bold, John. Give an inch and they’ll take a mile.” 

“Hmm,” John hummed, preoccupied by the note which had been left on his takeaway cup. 

_We should drink together next time! TGIF._

He looked up from his cup in time to catch the speculative look Veronica was levelling his way. “What?” he asked defensively, unconsciously drawing the milkshake to his chest. 

“Nothing,” she dismissed unconvincingly, eyes darting between him and the wine. “Nothing.” 

* 

The weekend passed as it always did: too quickly. 

He’d spent most of Saturday trying to talk his mum through the complexities of setting up her new smart TV through Facetime, an ordeal that had taken about six hours and as many glasses of wine. 

Julie had, apparently, been unavoidably busy for the duration. 

He, in turn, was going to be _unavoidably busy_ when his mum’s birthday present from him arrived a day late in March. A lifelong PC user — though an admittedly slow one — he was sure she’d have an absolute _blast_ exploring the desktop Mac he’d just ordered for her. 

A dish best served cold and all that. 

Sunday had passed in a haze of intense social media stalking which he had forcibly ended when he discovered himself seriously considering adding Roger on Facebook. 

He didn’t even _use_ Facebook anymore. 

Regardless, by the time Monday rolled around — and he’d spent far too long looking at tagged pictures of Roger at various protests, because _of course_ he couldn’t do him the decency of actually being an awful person — John had come to a conclusion. 

“I may have,” John started, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Been a bit of a tosser.” 

“Really?” mocked Chrissie, leaning against the coffee machine. John tried very hard not to stare at the luridly bright hickey that sat just below her ear. “And who would have helped you come to that conclusion?” 

_Milkshakes and one particular photograph of Roger in a corset_ , John figured, was probably not the correct answer. 

“My conscience?” John tried with a sheepish smile. 

“More like your dick,” Chrissie muttered, rolling her eyes. 

“What?” 

“What?” Chrissie parroted, blinking with slow and exaggerated innocence. 

John glared at her. 

Chrissie smirked back. 

“Whatever,” he dismissed, turning to face Freddie instead. She parroted that also, and he flipped her off. “Do you think you could order in two of the croissants, Fred? One for Roger, and one for me?” 

Behind him Chrissie let out an inelegant snort. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” Freddie replied with a deep sigh, throwing the tea towel he had been using to dry glasses in Chrissie’s direction. It missed her completely. “But they’re just so darned expensive! I can take the hit if one of them isn’t bought, but what if one day neither of you come in? Financial ruin.” 

“Really?” 

Eyes wide, Freddie nodded vigorously: “Really.” 

John considered the pastry cabinet thoughtfully, “I guess I’ll have the apricot danish, then.” 

“Such sacrifice!” Chrissie said, derision lacing her voice. 

“I’m a saint,” John deadpanned. 

Freddie laughed at the two of them before ignoring John’s request entirely to bag up the almond croissant instead, “Well, St. Deacon, I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance to perform miracles of charity today. He’s already been in.” 

“Fuck,” John grumbled, accepting the proferred bag with a sigh. 

Sat at his desk later on, the croissant just didn’t taste as good. 

* 

John was early to work on Wednesday. John was _very_ early to work on Wednesday. 

He’d forgone his usual midday siesta on Tuesday and powered through — if plodding listlessly around his flat, gazing wistfully at any vaguely soft surface for hours on end could be considered _powering through_ — the day in its entirety so that he could safely pass the fuck out at five PM as planned. 

Waking up at two still hadn’t been easy, per say, but it hadn’t been as difficult as he’d been expecting either. 

“Hi,” he said, and hoped that he sounded a hell of a lot less breathless in person than he did to himself. 

Roger, shrugging on his coat on his way out of the studio, froze. 

John, like a particularly socially inept penguin, shoved the Mercury’s bag he was carrying in Roger’s face. 

“Um,” said Roger. 

“For you,” John told him. 

He shook the bag for emphasis. 

“Thank you?” Roger said, looking between the bag and John warily. He made no move to take it from him, and they stood opposite one another awkwardly for a long moment. 

The door behind Roger slammed open, and Crystal spilled out into the hallway: “Right! Let’s get goi— Oh, alrigh’, John?” 

John took advantage of the distraction — Roger had turned just slightly to face Crystal, who had the biggest shiteating grin on his face that John had ever seen, the kind of grin that spelled nothing but trouble — to shove the pastry into his hands and bolt. 

All in all, he considered later on as he watched Ratty giggle at something on his phone from inside the booth, his attempt at making nice hadn’t unfolded exactly as planned. It wasn’t, however, a complete wash. Roger _had_ taken the croissant, even if he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. 

He’d do better tomorrow. An actual conversation, maybe. 

* 

He did not do better the next day. 

* 

On Friday night, after two glasses of wine and a small pep talk with himself in the bathroom mirror, he followed Roger back on Instagram. 

Roger, in turn, posted an unfairly attractive picture of his ex. 

John went to bed. 

* 

“I might, maybe, have a thing for Roger,” John greeted the empty tables of Mercury’s as he walked in on Monday morning. 

Freddie screamed. 

“Let’s not make a big deal out of it,” he said warily, walking up to the counter. 

“Okay,” said Chrissie, shrugging. “How was your weekend?” 

John’s shoulders made their way back down from around his ears, relieved. 

Freddie, head swinging between the two of them, let out an indignant squawk. “Uh!” he protested, flapping his arms at his side like an angry goose. “There’s no ‘making’ a big deal out of anything, Deacon,” he spluttered. “It _is_ a big deal!” 

Chrissie rolled her eyes, “What it isn’t, however, is news.” 

“John had to come to terms with his feelings on his own terms, Chrissie,” Freddie said insistently, turning to face her with his hands on his hips with the countenance of someone repeating an oft spoken argument. “As his friends—” 

“Uh,” said John. 

“Fuck you,” Freddie told him cheerfully, looking over his shoulder to flip him off. “We’re your friends.” 

John blinked, taken aback. He looked at Chrissie who sighed. 

“Dude,” she said slowly, shaking her head at him in a way that was much too reminiscent of his mother. “We’ve kind of been your friends for, like, two years.” 

“Oh,” John murmured quietly to himself. 

Freddie was looking at him with disbelief splashed across his face. 

“I invited you to Tom and Jerry’s _engagement party_ ,” he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air with exasperation. “Of _course_ you’re our friend, you silly wanker!” 

John swallowed, and told himself sternly that he was _not_ getting teary over having _friends_ at the ripe old age of twenty nine. “You invited everyone. You put a notice in the paper.” 

Chrissie groaned, “God, don’t remind me.” 

Freddie visibly bristled, drawing himself up to his full height. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, so it didn’t do much. “Just because _you_ have a heart made of ice, you utter shrew of a woman—” 

“John has a thing for Roger,” Chrissie interrupted before he could really get going. “And he admitted it.” 

“This isn’t over,” Freddie warned her, after a pause, pointing between the two of them. “I’m coming back to this.” 

“Oh, I know,” Chrissie acknowledged. 

Freddie squinted at her. 

Chrissie met his gaze impassively. 

As one they turned back to face John who fought the urge to bolt back out of the door. On the one hand, they were his friends. On the other… they were his _friends_. 

“It’s not a big deal,” John insisted again, fingers working anxiously at the sleeve of his coat under their scrutiny. “Really.” 

Freddie and Chrissie shared an indecipherable look for a beat. 

“Fuck that,” Freddie dismissed, bending over the lean on the counter with his face cradled in his hands. “When did you _realise_?” 

Chrissie scooted a cup over to him. For lack of anything else to do, John grabbed at it eagerly only to blink down in confusion at the chocolate-y concoction inside. He looked back up at Chrissie who was now perched on the countertop in direct violation of many a health code, her legs swinging back and forth as she popped a marshmallow in her mouth. 

Somehow, within the last minute or so, John had found himself at an adolescent sleepover. 

“Well?” Chrissie prompted, chucking a marshmallow to Freddie when he gestured for one. He caught it in his mouth easily. 

“When did I realise what?” 

“That you _liked_ him,” Freddie cried, sounding not unlike a particularly shrill sheep, swallowing his marshmallow with haste. 

Chrissie hummed her agreement. 

“I never said anything about liking him,” John protested hastily, hot chocolate held to his chest like a shield. “I just said—” 

“You said you might, _maybe_ , have a thing for him,” Chrissie said, rattling off his exact words like she was about to try and oust Veronica from her position. With her deadpan delivery she could have been in with a shot. 

“Kinda implies you might, maybe,” Freddie sing-songed mockingly with a wobble of his head and an obnoxious flutter of his eyelashes. John fought the desire to fish a marshmallow from his drink and lob it at him. “ _Like him_.” 

“Or,” John countered defensively. “Maybe I just wanna…” he trailed off. 

“Yes?” Freddie prodded, a devilish grin on his face as he leaned even further over the counter. 

John sighed. There was no winning this one, he knew. 

“Okay,” he conceded, shoulders slumping. “I might… maybe… like him.” 

“ _Like_ like?” Chrissie asked, a sarcastic lilt to her voice, as Freddie mimed falling to the floor in a dead faint. 

“Fuck you,” John grumbled, and took a long sip of his hot chocolate like the grown man he was. 

Freddie was watching him expectedly, still awaiting an answer to his question. John really didn’t want to answer. 

_Well, you see, it was Saturday night and that picture that Roger posted of Dom — who you may know is drop dead gorgeous and presenting a show on Channel 4 now? — had three hundred comments and so I, naturally, spent two hours trying to take the perfect thirst trap selfie in response. It was when I found myself considering downloading Facetune that I realised, maybe, I sort of wanted to jump his bones and also go to an Extinction Rebellion protest with him. Maybe._

There was absolutely no way he would come out of that explanation with his dignity — what was left of it, anyway — intact. 

“Did you see the photo of him in the corset?” Freddie probed, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

John started. “What? When did you—” he cut himself off as Freddie began to crow victoriously. “No,” he said decisively, not letting himself even think about it. “No, that. That wasn’t it.” 

“Helped though, right?” Chrissie asked with a smirk. “Like, he’s not my type at all, but Fred showed me it back when he stalked him weeks ago. And, phwoar, I probably would.” 

Entirely without his permission, John shot Freddie an accusing glare: “You stalked him?” 

“So did you!” Freddie pointed out, all wide eyes and affected innocence that meant absolutely nothing in the face of John’s knowledge of what sort of things he got up to on the weekends when he had a glut of minimum wage teenagers to man the less civilised hours. 

The summer holidays always caught John unawares, months on end of short lived underage employees who could never seem to get his order right. At least Chrissie was usually there to fix their mistakes, but he’d never felt older than on those odd days she wasn’t, glaring down at something that was closer to a latte than a bone dry cappuccino and cursing the idiotic youth of today. 

John continued to eye him suspiciously, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. 

“If you’re quite finished with your posturing, lover boy,” Chrissie drawled, pelting him with a balled up napkin. “You’re going to be late.” 

John scrambled for his phone, cursing at the time shining up at him in mockery. He couldn’t be late again. 

“Don’t forget your croissant!” Freddie piped up, holding up a bag. 

John snatched it up, tossing his empty cup over the counter and into the bin that stood next to the till. “Right, right,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he hustled back out and onto the street, thankful that he’d worn his boots with the better grip this morning. 

If they said anything in response, he was too far gone to hear it. 

* 

It was nearing the end of his show when he opened up the bag, distractedly listening to Veronica’s news segment with one ear as he went to take a bite. 

Instead of the croissant he’d been expecting, however, there was a note. 

_Truce?_

Under the note lay half of the croissant. 

John couldn’t help the sappy grin he knew was spreading across his face. 

He didn’t even protest when a caller requested Sandstorm. 

* 

John sat at his table in Mercury’s watching his phone warily. His phone screen was alight, a notification proclaiming cheerily: _dombeyrand✔ started following you!_

He had worked at the same station as Dominique for two years without becoming so much as a blip on her radar, and he couldn’t quite contain the abject _terror_ that flooded him at the thought that she now knew who he was. 

Ratty’s particular brand of cowardliness, he decided, must be contagious. 

However, in his defence, Dominique had once infamously brought the entire managerial team to tears and had come out of the meeting with a _twenty thousand pound_ pay rise. 

“Y’alright, John?” Chrissie called from the counter. 

The plus side of this whole Roger-and-croissant debacle — he was not acknowledging that the Roger part of that equation had become more important than the croissant; he was _not_ — was that he’d now trained himself into an earlier waking time. The twenty minutes he got at Mercury’s in the morning was fast becoming his favourite part of the day; time to relax, catch up on his various social medias so that Veronica’s first news reading of the day wasn’t a surprise, and to ready himself for another day of Ratty’s well intentioned ineptitude. 

“Hmm,” John replied, eyes still glued to his phone. The screen dimmed. 

“Convincing,” Freddie whisper-shouted to Chrissie, who proceeded to slam a milk jug on the counter. 

John started. 

“Sorry,” he said, swiping his phone off of the table and shuffling back over to the counter. “Do you think this is a threat?” he asked, shoving the handpiece in Chrissie’s face. 

Chrissie went cross-eyed. 

Freddie huffed, leaning over her shoulder to read it for himself. 

“No,” Chrissie said flatly, shooting him an unimpressed look as she shoved the phone away from her face. “It’s a notification that someone followed you.” 

Freddie, however, blurted: “Yes, absolutely yes. You’re a dead man walking.” 

“Oh God,” John groaned, half collapsing onto the counter to cover his face with his hands. “I knew it.” 

Chrissie looked completely bewildered, glancing between the two of them. “What?” she asked, brow creased. “Who is that?” 

“Dom,” John mumbled desolately. 

“Yes,” Chrissie replied with exaggerated patience. “I _can_ read. But who are they?” 

John looked up at her: “It’s _Dom_.” 

Chrissie met his eyes blankly. 

“Dom,” John repeated, again. He straightened up and gestured expansively. “Y’know… Dom?” He looked to Freddie for assistance. “Dom!” 

“Just repeating their name over and over with a different inflection each time isn’t going to magically make me know who this person is.” 

Freddie shrugged. 

“Dom, Roger’s ex?” John said slowly, knowing he was pulling an obnoxious face and unable to stop himself. “Crystal’s old boss: Dom?” 

“Wait, what?” Chrissie spluttered, rearing back as if she’d been slapped. “How the fuck do _you_ know about her?” she asked Freddie, stabbing a finger at his chest accusingly. 

Freddie held his hands up placatingly. “I am innocent in all of this,” he stated, eyes wide. 

“You haven’t been innocent of a goddamn thing in your entire life,” Chrissie hissed. 

Freddie stuck his tongue out at her. 

“How _do_ you know about her?” John asked him, suddenly suspicious. 

“I know things,” Freddie said insistently, pouting as he crossed his arms defensively. 

Chrissie snorted. 

“I do!” Freddie protested indignantly, looking all of two seconds away from stamping his foot. 

“Sure ya do, babe,” Chrissie told him, condescendingly patting him on the cheek just a shade too rough. 

“I met her when I went for drinks with Roger last weekend!” Freddie blurted out, hackles raised like one of his — many — cats. “And she’s terrifying! She’s going to eat John for _breakfast!_ So, there! I know things!” 

“And now,” Chrissie said in a conspiratorial aside to John, smirking. “So do we.” 

It was like watching a masterclass in Freddie-wrangling. 

“Fuck,” Freddie sighed. 

* 

John cautiously watched Veronica who in turn watched him suspiciously. 

She’d been doing so, on and off, for a while now. It seemed every time he turned to face her she was whirling in the opposite direction with all the subtlety of Ratty hanging around at the water cooler, desperately attempting to gain the attention of anyone with breasts. 

But now he’d finally caught her in the act. 

“What?” 

Veronica squinted at him, the kettle behind her beginning its low rumble as the water boiled. 

“ _What_?” he repeated, shuffling nervously as he hung up his scarf on the coat rack. 

“You’re early again,” she said, eyeing him head to toe. “And you’re wearing a _button up_.” 

“And?” 

“It’s been _ironed_ ,” she crossed her arms. “I didn’t even know you owned an iron.” 

He didn’t, actually. He’d had to borrow one off of his neighbour the night before. 

It had been a somewhat awkward introduction to the woman he’d lived next to for the past two years; their one previous interaction had been when she’d knocked on his door back when he’d first moved in. He’d pretended not to be home and she’d not tried again. 

“I’m twenty-nine,” he told her, trying at indignation. It came out sounding something closer to embarrassment — but then, most things he said to Veronica did. 

“You thought courgettes were just fat cucumbers until, like, a week ago.” 

“I’m an adult!” 

“Theoretically,” Veronica sniffed, looking unconvinced as she went back to surveying him as if he were a particularly interesting microbe in a petri dish. 


End file.
